


I Dream of Zombie

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Once again, all blame (and love...but mostly blame) goes to <a href="http://kansouame.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://kansouame.dreamwidth.org/"><b>kansouame</b></a> for this one, because she wanted to see Eames enchanted by zombie-movie fanboy!Arthur.  Oh, and don't take anything about this story seriously - if you're tempted to do so...well I can't stop you, I guess.  But it's at your own peril.</p>
    </blockquote>





	I Dream of Zombie

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, all blame (and love...but mostly blame) goes to [](http://kansouame.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kansouame**](http://kansouame.dreamwidth.org/) for this one, because she wanted to see Eames enchanted by zombie-movie fanboy!Arthur. Oh, and don't take anything about this story seriously - if you're tempted to do so...well I can't stop you, I guess. But it's at your own peril.

“Well, that’s one way to militarize your subconscious.”

Arthur was grinning, like he’d just been handed the best gift money could buy. There was blood, and something that was possibly grey matter, on the front of his button-down. Eames actually felt a little sick, but that was probably the rotten meat smell that was – well – everywhere.

“I have to say, I think you’re a little too happy about this, Arthur.” The projections were battering at the door; shaking the desk that Eames and Arthur had pushed in front of it to keep them out, accompanied by a long chorus of moans. Not that Arthur was dour by nature, but it was unusual to see him...almost gleeful about anything.

“Come on, Eames – live a little.” Arthur turned and pulled open the side window, bringing in a rush of cold air and the chorus of noise from the hungry projections on the street below as he went to work on the security bars. “How often are we going to get this chance?”

The desk skidded about two inches across the floor and the blocked door opened enough to allow three skinny, decaying arms to push through the gap and scrabble at the wallpaper. Eames put a bullet through one of the hands, not that it did any good. “To be chased through the dreamscape by a bunch of slathering corpses? Not very bloody often, I would hope!”

Arthur loosened the last bar, tossed it off the fire escape and slipped out into the sun. “I don’t know, it sort of makes me feel like an action hero. Now come on – and don’t shoot at them if you can’t hit them in the head – it isn’t going to do any good.”

Eames turned and heaved himself up out the window. It was a tighter fit between the loosened bars for him than for Arthur, but he refused to allow himself to get stuck. “And what were you when you were concocting a plan to drop us in an elevator, or when you drove a speeding taxi under gunfire, or...”

“This is more fun.” Arthur took the stairs to the roof two at a time, grinning so fiercely that his dimples were on full display as the rounded the corner out of sight. Eames enjoyed the view as he followed behind – from all possible angles.

“You need a new hobby, darling – just saying.”

Arthur crossed the rooftop in long-legged strides and looked out over the other side. “I’m not the one whose subconscious is full of monsters. A little help?”

“I’ll give you that – at least for the moment.” Eames laughed, scrambling up beside him onto the ledge. There was an open window below them, the curtains being pulled outwards in rhythm by the flux of the wind. Eames offered Arthur his hand, “Certainly.”

The apartment was empty – dusty furniture, a worn carpet – Eames broke for the door, knowing that they only had a few minutes before the projections doubled back and penned them in again. His hand was on the knob when someone blindsided him, shoving him into a coat rack; Eames staggered, grabbing the projection by one filthy, loose-jointed shoulder to try and shove it off, only dimly aware of the sound of Arthur’s gun firing in the instant before the projection’s head exploded in a rainbow of stagnant blood, spattering Eames’ face.

“A little _warning_ next time, Arthur, please!” Eames barked, pulling a bit of gristle out of the collar of his shirt and vowing to Mother England that he was never – _never_ – getting involved in something like this again.

“Relax,” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, tucking his Glock into his waistband and passing Eames a handkerchief before stepping smoothly over the fallen projection. “It’s not like you can actually become a zombie. Now hurry up – we have to catch up with Dom before the kick.”

The kick, as far as Eames was concerned, was – most often – the least pleasant part of any dreamshare. It was undignified, not to mention disorienting – particularly if you weren’t the dreamer – but in this case he was willing to make a very big exception in order to get back into the waking world and far away from the rotting, cannibalistic projections of another man’s subconscious. When he sat up, awake at long last, Arthur was two breaths ahead of him, still grinning like a child and mouthing _amazing_ , while Cobb shuddered and wiped his palms on the front of his trousers and Ariadne declared, “No more horror movie-nerds, okay?”

It was some time later – several days, in fact, after Eames had considered burning the clothes he was wearing for no other reason than he _swore_ there was a blood stain on his shirt, in a certain light – that Eames thought about Ariadne’s horrified grimace (the girl could make the most amusing faces sometimes, really) and the truth of the whole situation clicked into his brain.

By that time, they had been paid, and were sharing a too-expensive dinner at one of those fancy faux-French restaurants uptown – which, thankfully, didn’t serve faux-French food – discussing previous encounters with sub-security, and Eames, a little drunk, _had_ to lean over and mutter more or less in Arthur’s ear, “You loved that, didn’t you?”

“Getting shot?” Arthur’s face twisted in something that was half grimace, half laugh, “Yes, Eames. I always _love_ getting shot.”

“No darling,” Eames drawled, leaning back in his chair, taking note that Arthur was getting to that comfortable stage of drunkenness where he no longer cared about public propriety and was on the verge of tipping his chair back right in the restaurant. “I meant the other day – your little...action hero routine.”

"I'm not allowed to have some fun, is that what you're saying?"

"I like fun as much as the next man," Eames protested, getting a little too enthusiastic with his hand gestures and spilling wine on the table cloth. "Poker is fun. Boxing is fun. Ruining the sheets in the honeymoon suite at the Palace Hotel is fun..."

Ariadne snorted loudly into her wine, Yusuf made a choking noise around his steak, and Cobb rolled his eyes.

"Zombies," Eames finished, loudly over the sounds of his so-called friends disparaging him, "are not fun."

"Then you're watching the wrong movies," Arthur concluded.

"I've _never_ watched one, in point of fact – hardly my cup of tea."

That was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Eames lost the next ninety minutes of his life to a protracted lecture on classic zombie movies (with special emphasis paid to the works of a Mr. George Romero). Then again, maybe "lost" was the wrong word to use for the situation, as Eames was treated to a healthy dose of Arthur's dimples, not to mention more enthusiasm than he'd seen Arthur pay anything aside from research; and around midnight, when it was just the two of them at the table, Arthur leaned in close and sketched schematics for his zombie survival plan on the tablecloth with the tip of his finger, his voice a low, wine-smoothed rush.

Around two in the morning, when they were finally coaxed out of the restaurant and stood waiting for cabs, Arthur slid easily into Eames’ personal space and informed him, “One day soon, I’m going to get you on my couch,” and Eames had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything that would cause Arthur to either stop talking or commit acts of violence on Eames’ person, “and I’m going to make you watch every classic zombie movie I own.”

A cab pulled up while Eames was staring open-mouthed and getting a little lost in the warm, sweet smell of Arthur’s cologne, and Arthur slipped inside before Eames could even hope to stop him, looking smugly amused as he declared, “But not tonight. Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

It was fortunate for the vestiges of Eames’ sanity that he had a job with another team in Kabul at the end of the week, otherwise he would have spent a great deal of time floundering around his hotel room wondering when Arthur was going to contact him next (or, frankly, if Arthur had sobered up and decided that he was never going to call again.)

Instead, he ended up texting Arthur from his layover in Istanbul _off to Kabul – do try not to miss me too much darling._

Arthur responded in short order, _Don’t worry, I won’t_ , and then, almost like an apology, _safe travels_.

The job turned out easy – but it was still seven weeks in a low-rent shithole followed by a redeye to New York. He could have gone back to Mombasa or to London or, frankly, anywhere else on the world map, (except for Sarajevo – not that he would _want_ to go back there) but after a call to Cobb (who rang off on him), a call to Yusuf (who laughed at him) and a call to Ariadne (who blackmailed him shamelessly), he learned that Arthur was in New York, so it was obviously the best choice.

Eames spent two nights at the Hilton, sleeping off his jet-lag and drinking disgustingly indulgent amounts of scotch whiskey while he tried to decide when would be the appropriate moment to call or text Arthur without seeming desperate. Blessedly, Arthur took the decision out of his hands on day three by sending a text message containing an address and a time – seven PM.

Assuming it was word on yet another job, Eames put on the most horribly offensive Paisley shirt he had in his luggage, underneath a clean grey suit jacket, tucked his Browning into the back of his trousers and took a cab uptown.

“I wish I could assume you’d gone blind in the desert,” Arthur said, by way of hello, eyes sliding calculatingly over Eames’ person. Eames was fairly certain that he had a witty rejoinder _somewhere_ in his lexicon, but he was stunned into temporary silence by the sight of Arthur stunningly underdressed, in loose-fitting grey sweats and a tidy, tight, black cotton tee, his hair clean and untouched by product, his feet bare on the smooth, dark hardwood floor.

“Bloody hell,” Eames sputtered when he managed to remember what his tongue was for, “you _live_ here.”

“And you’re supposed to be _observant_ ,” Arthur laughed, stepping back and allowing Eames to creep reluctantly into the flat like a nervous cat, ignoring the jibe as he revelled in the chance to see a place where Arthur actually lived – even on a temporary basis, because Eames happened to know that Arthur had a flat in Paris and some kind of timeshare arrangement in Los Angeles and in Venice even if he had never seen any of them. It was like a dream come true. He was aware he was probably goggling like a tourist. The flat had a tidy, open floor plan, with a few pieces of semi-famous artwork on the walls – probably all originals too, knowing Arthur – a section of tall shelves, heavy with books, a glamorously large television, and furniture that was all either dark wood or leather, swallowing up the soft light, giving everything a shadowy warmth.

“So,” Eames ventured at last, clearing his throat and puffing out his chest in a way that normally helped to pluck up his courage, “to what do I owe the honour of being allowed into your inner sanctum?”

Arthur did a puzzlingly attractive thing where he rolled his eyes and sucked his lower lip in between his teeth, scooping something up off the immaculate coffee table and holding it out to Eames.

It was a Blu-Ray – _Night of the Living Dead_ special edition.

“Unless you have something else you’d rather be doing tonight.” The tone of Arthur’s voice suggested he knew full-well that Eames had spent the last two days eating room service and watching pay-per-view in between bouts of napping.

Eames shucked his jacket and stretched himself out on the sofa, with his sock feet on the tabletop in a way that made Arthur purse his lips. “Bring on the undead hordes darling,” he slid his Browning out and placed it on the table by his feet, “I even came prepared.”

Through the first half of the movie, Eames held his tongue, but then his better nature won out and he started asking endless questions, pestering and prodding Arthur; first with his words, then with the foot he had half-tucked underneath himself. Once they’d made a decent dent into a bottle of good wine and an obscenely large bowl of popcorn, Arthur forgot to be irritated with his needling and started waxing poetic about the cinematography. By the time they started working on the sequel, Arthur was loose-limbed and joyful-eyed, spilling random facts about the filming of the movie which, honestly, only Arthur – expert point man and chronic research junkie – would ever possibly know. And Eames...Eames wasn’t even properly watching the movie after a point – he was watching Arthur, not sure he had ever seen the man so brightly animated about...anything, frankly. Arthur put a lot of energy into his work – they all did – but it wasn’t energy like this, not the same free-flowing excitement. It was hard to believe that this was the same Arthur who dropped words like “specificity” into casual conversation.

Eames was captivated; at least until Arthur fixed him with a withering glance and warned, “You’re missing the _best part_ Eames.” After that, he tried to pay more attention to the film, and decidedly less to the proximity of Arthur’s body, or how warm the apartment seemed to be. Partway through film number three, Eames realized that Arthur had gone silent, and when he glanced over he was blessed with the sight of Arthur with his head lolled back against the sofa, eyes closed, mouth slack.

And, well, Eames had never been any good at resisting temptation, particularly if that temptation came in an Arthur-shaped package; which was how he ended up leaning in, far, far too close, with his eyes focused on the lush, pink moue of Arthur’s mouth.

“What are you doing, Mr. Eames?”

“Uh...” Not the most elegant of responses, to be sure, but at least he managed to resist the impulse to jump back like a frightened deer. Arthur didn’t even have his eyes open, lashes heavy and dark against his cheeks. “I thought I should warn you that I find your fascination with the undead incredibly attractive.”

Arthur opened his eyes just enough to fix Eames with a look that was one part amusement and one part disbelief. “Really?”

“Very much so,” Eames confirmed, now glad he hadn’t moved away. Arthur’s lips were slightly purpled from the wine, and there was a dusting of salt in the cleft of his lower lip. “Every time you wax poetic about walking corpses I find myself possessed of the most overwhelming urge to kiss you.”

Arthur’s brow creased into a truly endearing frown, “You know – I can’t figure out who the freak in this scenario is – me or you.”

Eames grinned shamelessly, “Perhaps we’re a matched set.”

Arthur’s lips quirked upward, “Maybe you should just kiss me and find out.”

So Eames did, slow and lavish with a careful slip of tongue, just to see if he could get away with it; and he would have pressed his advantage even further had he not been distracted by Arthur’s hand groping in the couch cushions for something.

“Looking for your gun, darling?”

Arthur snorted, shoving at Eames shoulder and twisting sideways to continue his search. “Remote. Unless you want to stay out here and watch another movie while I go to bed.”

Eames dropped back, scooping up the remote from where it was wedged into the cushions near Arthur’s hip, and shut the TV off lightning fast, ignoring the bright sound of Arthur’s laughter.

“Please promise me you’re going to comfort me when I wake up from my zombie-filled nightmares.” Eames put particular emphasis on the words _comfort me_ , even though he was sure that Arthur would understand the implication.

Clearly, Arthur did, because he kicked Eames in the shin before pulling him into another lush kiss.

-End-


End file.
